


The Spell Caster

by Crysania



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 02:09:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5479388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crysania/pseuds/Crysania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Rumplestiltskin decides to test his apprentice, he couldn’t ever imagine the spell Belle had in mind to cast. Written for the Rumbelle Secret Santa 2015 exchange. Prompts were: First Time Dark Castle Angst</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spell Caster

She's been at the castle now for months…No…that's not quite right…well over a year now, maybe even two. She loses track of time these days, each day melting into the next. She had come to be a maid. Or at least, that was what Rumplestiltskin told her on her first day there as he outlined the duties she was to have. Even if it made no sense at all. Why would the greatest sorcerer who lived need a _maid_?

She was sure, right from the beginning, that even _he_ wasn't quite certain of that. He follows her around and watches what she's doing and tries to scare her. He's really not that frightening. The way he prances about the place, giggles like a small girl. He's ridiculous at times, though she doesn't dare tell him that. She's never been scared of him past that first morning when she dropped the teacup and he scoffed. _It's just a cup_.

It was one month in when she grabbed a candle and the thing _lit_. Rumplestiltskin was at her side almost immediately. One moment she was alone in her room, the next he was standing in front of her with his eyes flashing and his mouth half open. "What did you do?"

And that was how she discovered that she had some sort of innate magical ability. She supposes she had always known, really. Things sometimes just happen with no explanation. She remembers growing up thinking _everyone_ could do that. But Rumplestiltskin tells her only _some_ can and that makes her more of a liability to him than he could have imagined. A non-magical maid was nothing to be worried about. She might accidentally get herself magicked to the far reaches of his castle by dusting the wrong thing. And he giggles when he mentions the maid who still wanders his garden as a frog. That he can deal with. But Belle is _different._

_Such an odd girl_ …she still remembers her nanny saying the words, words that _stung_ when she was only a child. _Maurice, you cannot raise her like this_. To read, to study. She was female, but raised to understand a man's world. And so her friends were at best acquaintances, people brought in by her father to be her friend when they really could not care less about her. She spent much of her youth locked in a room with some girl she barely knew, who ignored her while she read her books.

And so coming to the castle of the most infamous sorcerer who lived? It was the adventure she always read of in her books. Even if she came to be a maid.

But she's not. Not anymore. She hasn't been since the day he discovered her magical ability. Almost immediately, he had grabbed her arm and transported them to his tower. _Light this_. _Make this move._ He had made her do anything she could think of and then started pushing her. _Can you make this disappear from my hand? I want you to light the fire in that fireplace._ _Concentrate, damn you_.

It didn't take long before Belle realized he was teaching her. He had gone from testing to teaching without even batting an eyelash and after a week or two she had come into his tower, feather duster wielded like it as a weapon and cornered him. _Am I your apprentice?_

He had looked up at her then, heaved a great big sigh, and told her yes and would she kindly get out of his way as he had work to do.

It was the last time she'd lifted a feather duster.

Not the last time she _dusted_ mind you. Things were not quite that simple at the Dark Castle. _Use your magic, dearie_. A titter and a strange, frantic hand gesture, and the feather duster appeared. So she still did her duties. But less and less all the time.

He taught her how to clean with a swipe of the hand, taking care of an entire room with one magical gesture. _All magic comes at a price_ , he warns her time and time again. Her price, it seems, is to put up with _him_. He dances around her, likes to tease and torment her. She’s gotten used to his teleporting and can react to that with nothing more than a sigh. But that doesn’t stop him from finding other ways to startle and annoy. It seems as much a part of his personality as the quiet spinning he does every night.

That is, ultimately, what fascinates her the most. It seems to settle him. He often flies to it after he returns from a deal, sometimes after a particularly heated exchange with her. He sits down and moments later his face goes slack, his eyes half shut, like a cat who has settled in for the night. She waits for him to start purring and the thought always makes her giggle just a little bit.

She watches him most nights. She’s not even sure he’s aware of it. She reads by the fire and he spins and she finds herself watching _him_ instead of reading about damsels who are not quite in distress saving the world. It’s not that she doesn’t enjoy those stories. It’s just that Rumplestiltskin is such a bigger adventure than what she finds between those pages.

So she watches.

And the world spins as he works with her to perfect the magic she seems to have been born with.

It’s late one night when she asks him about that. “My father has no magic,” she says by way of introduction when he steps into the room.

Rumplestiltskin lets out a scoffing noise. “Yes, well, your father seemed to have not much of anything.” The words are harsh, but Belle finds herself shaking her head. It’s not the first time he’s insinuated that her father was not all that bright. And he wasn’t. She knows this. She’s been told time and time again that her intelligence and drive to learn came from her mother. A mother she barely remembers.

“I don’t recall my mother having any…”

He cuts her off then. “Your mother had _something_. Now come, dearie. Pay attention. It’s not every day you get to learn about building potions.”

But she doesn’t do as he asks. She steps forward, puts her hand on his arm. She feels his arm jerk beneath her fingers, but he doesn’t pull back. She knows he _wants_ to. Sometimes Rumplestiltskin is very much a frightened deer, facing down a hunter’s bow with wide eyes and a frozen stare. She wonders, sometimes, late at night, when she is all alone and can allow her mind to roam free, what has made him this way. Affection is second nature to her. A kind gesture, a hand placed on a shoulder, a hug when life is falling apart. But it all seems so foreign to him. “What do you know of my mother? I remember so little…”

He watches her for a moment and when she finally removes her hand, he seems to breathe easier, shifting back and away from her, his eyes focusing on the glass jars he holds in his hands instead of her. “Your mother was…a woman of some talent.”

“You _knew_ her.” She feels the breath being sucked from her body at the thought.

He shakes his head. “Not in any concrete way. I found out more after I discovered your magic,” he finally admits.

“I didn’t know.”

“Your father kept it from you,” he surmises. And she realizes that must be true. Her father didn’t want her to know. He had always been quiet about her mother, telling her little and deflecting her myriad of questions.

“I…” She shakes her head to try to clear her mind. He knew. And he never told her, never allowed her to believe there could be anything special or different about her. What might have happened had she married Gaston as her father had wanted, if he had discovered her penchant for magic? Her village distrusted magic and Gaston was perhaps the worst of all. He fought with sword and steel. Magic was something to be vanquished, not used. She fears her father felt much the same.

Calling on Rumplestiltskin had been _her_ idea after all.

“I don’t know what to say,” she finally murmurs.

“Then say nothing,” Rumplestiltskin answers and his voice has gone high again. He’s distancing himself as he often does.

Belle sighs and lets him do as he wishes, teaching her the proper way to mix potions and giggling when she very nearly blows the whole room up on her first try. He enjoys it, she realizes. Having an apprentice that is. She’s gathered that he hasn’t in a long time, maybe never. And she feels for him in his loneliness. It must be a terrible thing, being holed up in a cold, dusty castle with no company.

And she often wonders how many years.

She’s heard Rumplestiltskin is immortal and she frequently wonders what he’s seen, where he’s been. She tries to ask, but the words get caught in her throat and the way he skitters back from her when she tries to get too close stops her before she can press it any further. He’s like a frightened dog sometimes, hiding in the shadows and snapping at her if she gets too close. It’s fear. All fear. She knows this and so sometimes she treats him with kid gloves, gently coaxing him into the light before he even realizes he’s there.

This is how their days go. Simple cantrips to make her day easier, potions to aid her in casting of more complicated spells, spells of protection that make her draw up thoughts of those she loves. And if she sometimes draws up thoughts of Rumplestiltskin, who is to know?

He’s a harsh taskmaster, though not the harshest she’s known. She remembers her governess, a large woman who was to be feared, who she always thought could end her with just one look. Rumplestiltskin tries for that, but even though she knows he _could_ end her easily, there’s something about the careful way he interacts with her that makes her certain he _wouldn’t_.

She’s not even sure when she realizes that she cares about him. Maybe it was the time that her spell went awry and she was certain he had been burned up in the blue flame that had surrounded him. _You won’t get rid of me that easily, dearie_ , he had told her. And she had breathed a sigh of relief, hugging him and feeling his limbs go stiff beneath her.

Or it might be _now_ , she realizes. When he’s been gone for nearly a fortnight, leaving her to haunt the castle on her own. It’s quiet, peaceful. And utterly boring. She’s read spellbook after spellbook, tried out a few more complicated spells, attempted communicating with him through a mirror. No response to be had there. Just a strange swirling mist that she puts a stop to quickly. Just in case she's miscast the spell and something _else_ comes out of the mirror.

She's inexperienced.

But she's definitely not stupid.

And so she waits, digging through and stumbling on spells. Spells to communicate with the dead. _The dead_. Belle has never known her mother, not really at least. She wonders what she looks like, sounds like. She wonders if she would be proud of her daughter. If she could talk to her…

"You're not ready for that."

Belle jumps at the sound of his voice. She slams the book shut even as she turns around to glare at him. "Where have you been?"

He giggles. _Giggles_. She’s used to the rather unnerving sound by now but there are times when it truly irritates her. That little titter. That little hand gesture. It’s a deflection, a distraction. He's not going to answer her question.

“No?” she answers with, her lips pressed together, one eyebrow half –raised.

“No,” he confirms.

“And just what _am_ I ready for?” She crosses her arms over her chest. She’s wanted a challenge. She’s tired of the same old boring spells. She can light candles in her sleep (and has, in fact, though she tries not to think too hard on that for fear she’ll burn the place down around her ears). She can conjure an entire meal (though truth be told, it’s a little bland). She can even do small transport spells. Not herself, of course. But she’s able to bring her favorite book to herself when she concentrates.

“This,” Rumplestiltskin says and with a flick of his wrist, a book appears. It’s old, the jacket dusty, the leather peeling in spots. She reaches out for it and he pulls it back before her hand can touch the cover. “So eager, my dear?” He leans slightly forward as he speaks and one side of his mouth curls up.

“Well…”

He drops the book on the table in front of her. “Have at it then.” She eagerly grasps the book but he stops her, one finger coming under her chin and tilting her face back up to him. “There’s just one thing…”

“There always is with you.” Her voice is caught halfway between accusation and pout.

He lets out another unnerving giggle and she has to fight to not roll her eyes at him. “This is a test, my dear.”

“A…”

“Test, yes.” He holds up one hand then. “Yes I think it is time for a test.”

“You didn’t plan this,” she says and her eyes narrow. He’s making things up as he goes along. She knows this. She has _always_ known this. But this is taking it much further.

“That’s no matter,” he points out, waggling one finger at her. “It’s a test nonetheless.”

She rolls her eyes at him. She can’t help it. He’s often far too ridiculous for words and this is one of those times. “Fine then.” She grabs the book and turns away from him.

“Not so fast.” And of _course_ he cannot be a normal human being and reach out a hand to stop her. No, he has to use magic to freeze her in place. Or at least, in place for a mere moment. The murderous look she shoots him causes him to stiffen, the only movement that odd rubbing motion he makes with forefinger and thumb. “Don’t you want to know the rules?”

“This isn’t a game.”

“There are rules to tests too,” he shoots back. And when she takes a step closer, rounds on him, he backs away a pace or two, hands up. “The rules are simple. Pick a spell from _that_ book.” He points at it and there is a slight smile back on his face. “Cast it successfully. Then…and _only_ then…will you be ready for a spell like the one you want to cast.”

With his final words, he offers up one more giggle and then he disappears from the room. Belle shakes her head at the dissipating smoke. She knows that’s just for show. She’s _seen_ him disappear without any such ridiculousness. But ever the showman, she knows he just cannot resist.

And so she’s left alone in the room. Just her and the book and no idea what spells might be within its covers, no idea which she might even want to cast. She sets to the task of reading it with great relish. New books are always fascinating. But a new spellbook? Well, this might be even _more_ fun.

* * *

She’s clutching the book and pacing before she goes in to see Rumplestiltskin. The book was fascinating, the spells many and varied. Some were simpler, spells to cure warts for instance. Some eradicated plagues and while that was certainly a worthy spell, she didn’t know of any area nearby that might have need of such a thing. And why cast a spell that was worthless? It seems a waste.

So her search continued.

Until she found a spell that most certainly could help the neighboring lands. Their lands were barren, the soil strangely dry, the crops dying. Not long before she had come to live with Rumplestiltskin, she had heard rumor of starvation and death and attempts to relocate gone wrong.

So a fertility spell.

It would work. It would _help_ people. She would be the hero she’s always dreamed of being, like the women in her books. Even if no one knew it, _she_ would know it.

There was only one problem…

“Oh do stop your pacing and get in here,” Rumplestiltskin grumbles and the door flies open.

“Oh,” Belle responds with. She stands just outside the door and watches as he rolls his eyes at her. When she still doesn’t step in, he crooks a finger and the smirk on his face says he knows.

Well, he knows _something_ at least.

She’s picked her spell. She’s studied the ingredients, the things she has to do. She’s done as he’s instructed, closing her eyes and visualizing not only the results of the spell but all of the actions and ingredients that have to go into _making_ that happen.

And if she blushes every time. If she feels a little strange, a little hot, when she imagines it, well, who is to know?

“You have your spell,” Rumplestiltskin says as she steps inside the room and the door slides shut behind her. It’s a small room. She feels trapped, nervous, almost giddy.

“Yes.” She doesn’t elaborate.

He gives an impatient huff. “Well, let’s see it then. What spell are you going to make a mess of, my dear?”

He holds out his hand and she clutches the book even closer to her. He taps his foot on the ground. She bites her lower lip and watches as his eyes flit to where her teeth worry her lip before moving up to meet her eyes once more.

“Well, there’s just one thing…” She doesn’t know how to say it.

“Which spell?” he asks and she watches a look she can’t quite define flit across his strange features.

“I…”

“Oh just _show_ it already. I haven’t got all day.” He snaps the words at her, but she knows there’s more than simple annoyance there.

She takes a deep breath. And then slams the book down, open to the page she has marked, and steps back.

He steps forward.

_Dear gods what have I done_.

He leans closer to the book.

_This was a mistake_.

His brow crinkles. Just a little bit.

_I should take it back. Tell him it was a joke_.

And then his eyebrows rise and he rears back. He doesn’t quite meet her eyes as he looks back up. “Just what is _this_?”

“A spell?” She cringes at the hesitant tone to her voice.

“I see that, but…”

“It’s a perfectly good spell,” she points out.

“I’m sure that it is, but…”

“You said _any_ spell.”

“Yes but _not this one_.”

She lets out a small huff of laughter. It would be a giggle if it didn’t choke up in her throat somewhere. “There are lands who need…”

“I’m sure there are,” he replies with and when he turns from her, she can see that his hand is shaking just slightly.

“And I thought…”

He whirls on her then and there’s fire in his eyes and she can see a vein in his forehead sticking out. His jaw clenches as he comes closer. “You _didn’t_ think." He spits the word at her and she takes a step backward. He advances one more step and she wants to retreat more. Tell him nevermind. Forget it. This isn't worth it. _Give me a different spell and I'll just do it_.

But she doesn't.

She stands her ground.

"I want to cast this spell," she says through clenched teeth.

"And just _who_ , dearie, are you going to get to _fornicate_ with you at the height of this spell? You didn't miss _that_ little detail did you? No I didn't think so. You are _ever_ so observant after all." He's close now and his eyes are narrowed. His hands come up to grip her shoulders. "So who's it going to be? Are going to go to town and find the first young _buck_ you can? Bring him here? To the castle of the demon and have him _defile you_ on the floor of my tower room?" His voice is going higher in pitch and the hands gripping her shoulders tighten, black nails sinking in just a little more than is comfortable. "Or maybe you already have someone in mind. Someone handsome you saw while out at market? I hear that the Peters boy is quite the catch. Perhaps you could…"

"You," she tries to interrupt with.

"Or there's that young man who sells flowers at the fair. I'm sure he's caught the eye of many a young lass. Oh!" He holds up a finger. "Perhaps it's not a young buck at all. There is that lovely young lass who runs the shop with the ribbons you so seem to like. I hear she…"

"You!" she shouts and pulls away from him. His nails scratch her through the fabric of her dress as she pulls away. "You, you ridiculous man. _You_."

If it does nothing else, her shouts have stopped his tirade. In fact, he's stopped moving all together. He looks slightly cross-eyed and she'd laugh if it wouldn't somehow offend. His eyes, those great big reptilian eyes, blink slowly. Once. Twice. His mouth is half open but no sound is coming out.

"Rumplestiltskin?" she asks finally.

"I…"

She steps closer to him and puts her hand over his. "Yes. _You_."

"Wha…" he starts to say but he can't seem to quite get a coherent word out. "Why?" he finally manages to ask.

She shrugs. "Because it's what the spell requires." She can't admit to him, maybe isn't ready to admit to him, there is a part of her that wonders what it would feel like. Not just the whole thing, though she knows she wonders about that too. But she wonders what it would feel like with _him_. She had been betrothed before, to that great behemoth Gaston, but she had never wondered about _him_.

The thought, frankly, turned her stomach a little bit.

_Odd girl_ , she had always been told. No doubt this still holds true as she realizes she’s contemplating such activities with a creature most consider a demon, a creature with oddly colored scaly skin, black nails, too-wide reptilian eyes.

“Yes but… _why_?”

“Why not?” She shrugs.

“Because…because…” His hand makes a sweeping motion from head to toe. _Because I’m me_ , she can hear in the words. Because he’s not human. Or isn’t anymore at least. Because he’s a demon. Because he’s the _Dark One_. “There are so many other spells.”

“But I want to cast _this_ one.” She moves closer to him then and watches as he skitters back, his hand spinning out around him as he tries to ward her off.

“I…”

“Give me _one_ good reason why I can’t try this particular spell.” She leans forward slightly. She knows the effect it will have on him. He may play at being the big bad Dark One, but she’s seen the way he chokes up when she gets too close. She’s seen his eyes stray briefly before he remembers himself and pulls them back up to meet hers.

He makes an incoherent noise and then he’s gone.

No smoke.

No fanfare.

Just…there one second and gone the next.

“You _did_ say any spell from the book,” she mutters to the empty room.

* * *

She has lunch alone that day, a quiet somewhat dismal affair of slightly stale bread and raspberry jam. The latter, at least, is tasty. Rumplestiltskin is in hiding. She has no doubt of that much. His spinning wheel has been abandoned. He’s not even in his tower. And she’s looked. She can’t quite imagine where he’s gone to, but he’s _gone_.

She doesn’t really understand his hesitance. He’s hundreds of years old, according to common lore. She’s seen the small clothing tucked into one out of the way room and he says he once had a son. So he’s _done_ the whole thing before. Surely he’s done it more than once. Maybe many times. He must have outrageous amounts of experience.

So why the hesitation?

She’s practically throwing herself at him in the name of casting this spell. She _wants_ it, she realizes. More than just the spell, she wants it. Because he’s right. There are many spells in the book, some really quite useful. But she wants _this_ one because she wants _this_.

It’s a conundrum to be sure and so she pulls out the spellbook again. If he won’t allow her the spell of her choice, she supposes she’ll have to pick another one. A distant second choice to the first glorious spell she chose.

And it’s a difficult decision.

It takes her some two hours to settle on another spell. It’s not as powerful. It’s not as interesting. It’s not as… _exciting_ …as the other spell she still wants to do, but she supposes at least there’s a good outcome. Bringing fertile ground to a people riddled with drought was better. But making a village’s cows always produce milk? Well, it would do at least.

She wants to _help_ with her magic. Help, never hurt. It’s important to her. There are spells in the book for all sorts of frivolities. But battling droughts and animals who are not producing are much better.

“Tonight,” comes the voice over her head.

“Rumplestiltskin,” she mutters, glancing up at him. Usually he appears right under her nose, finger pressed into the middle of her book, just another way to set her on edge. Usually it’s offered up with a giggle.

But this time he is studying her from across the room, eyes intent, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t move as she watches him. And perhaps that is more unnerving than anything else. Rumplestiltskin is a man of motion. If he’s not at his spinning wheel, he’s pacing the room or his foot is tapping or his fingers continue spinning even when he’s not. She can’t quite remember him _ever_ being still. But now he stands, leaning against the wall, and _doesn’t move_.

“Which spell?” Her voice is a little husky and she takes in a deep breath.

She watches as he swallows hard. “The one you wanted. Dusk. Your library. Make sure you’re ready.” And then he’s gone again. And Belle is left to stare at the blank space he occupied just moments before.

Her spell.

She gets to cast her spell.

And she gets to…do that…with him. He’s allowing it. She could see the trepidation, the hesitation. She’s almost sure he disappeared before he could take it back. He’s willing though. Even if he's resisting or some reason. She doesn’t think it’s because he doesn’t _want_ to. No, she’s quite certain that’s not why he’s hesitant.

It’s not that she thinks she’s special. Or even particularly beautiful. Her name has always been a thorn in her side. _It means beauty, my child_ , her father had always told her. And she feels anything _but_ beautiful most days. She’s odd, bookish, the child who would imagine herself as the hero, sword in hand, rescuing the fair maiden. She was never the maiden in the stories. That wasn’t the interesting part to her.

It still isn’t.

Which is why she’s about to cast a fertility spell with the Dark One as her partner. This was her world now. One of magic and mystery and layers she still wasn’t quite getting through.

Well, perhaps she’ll get through one that night.

But first she has work to do. Ingredients to gather, a spell to study, and a bath. She must bathe in rose petals and a thimbleful of dirt from a fertile garden. She hopes Rumplestiltskin’s will do. It’s wild, or was when she arrived. Now it’s mostly dead, the winter time coming upon them fast. He’s told her that winter is particularly harsh in the mountains where the Dark Castle is home. And so the garden has gone into hibernation, rose bushes dead and leaves long since carried away on the wind that howls through the mountain passes. But it _was_ fertile when she first came and so it will have to do.

And so she sets to it with a determination she hasn’t had in the longest time. She _will_ get this spell right. And she _will_ get to the higher level spells that will allow her to speak to her mother, to find out what happened, to let her know that she was fine. Happy, even, if truth be told.

* * *

_It’s time_ …

She’s watching out the window as the sun goes down, trying to keep her breathing steady. But she cannot help the catch in her breath, the fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach, the uneven beat of her heart. She is ready for this. She knows she is. But it doesn’t stop the nervous energy from consuming her.

She has paced her room more times than she can count.

The bath did not soothe.

The books she could not concentrate on.

Even tea did not settle her nerves.

_What if it doesn’t work?_

_What if she’s not good enough?_

_What if things go wrong?_

And she’s not only worried about the spell. She’s worried about… _him_ …about what they are about to embark upon. She cannot pretend that this will not change things between them. For better or for worse, she’s just not sure.

But she's made up her mind and so makes the long walk up to the tower where her library is situated. There are candles to light, a scene to set. Everything has to be perfect. The spell is particular. _Very_ particular. There are eight candles, spaced exactly 6 feet apart. They have to be red. They have to be exactly nine inches tall. They have to be lit in the proper order, clockwise, starting from the one furthest from the entrance to the room.

The dirt she has gathered from his garden has to be scattered in such a way to form a star within that circle. And in the middle of it all is a bed made from pillows sewn from a local village woman who has fourteen children and is pregnant with the fifteenth.

Belle steps into the room. It's dark, not one candle lit. As the door shuts behind her and the room is plunged into darkness, she waits. Her eyes adjust as she stands near the entrance. She can make out shapes. The pillows laid in the middle, the candles she has placed.

And then she steps forward and tugs at the sash holding her robe in place. All must be done unclothed. The spell was very specific about that. Even a hair ribbon would be too much. So her hair is wild and free, waves let loose around her shoulders, down her back. She takes a deep breath. This is _her_ spell, _her_ moment.

Letting the robe drop to the ground, she grips the leather bag holding the dirt tightly in one fist. She feels exposed, there in the chilly dark confines of her library. It's a room she knows well, but something has changed, a sort of charge to the air that wasn't there before. It dances across her skin and toys with the hair at the nape of her neck.

She's never felt this exposed before.

She's never felt this _free_ before.

She’s standing at the first candle when she feels _something_ behind her. A disturbance in the room. Whirling around, she scans the room. Only a bit of moonlight filters through the window, the moon just coming into view. And then she sees him. He’s standing just inside the entranceway, one hand still clutching the door.

He’s dressed in a robe similar to the one she just removed and while she can only just barely make out his form, it’s still strange and almost unsettling to see him like that. His legs are bare where they stick out from it, the robe only coming to just below his knees. Without the dragonhide coat, the vest, his silhouette is different. He looks like a man, standing there in the shadows, not the demon he often tells her he is.

“Light it,” he says and his voice is tight, quiet.

“You have to…” she starts to say, but she can’t quite get the words out. They _both_ must be free of all clothing before the spell can begin. He knows this as well as she does.

“Yes,” he cuts her off with. She turns away then. She cannot watch him, _will_ not watch him. She hadn’t thought of how awkward this will be when she came up with her plan. She only has been thinking of the end product. Both in the magical and intimate sense. And so she turns away from him as she fumbles for a moment with the matches that she needs to light the candles. She cannot use magic for it. Not in this spell. So she strikes one to the other and leans forward to light the candle.

As it flares into life, she hears a gasp from behind her and turns to face him. He’s still half in shadow, but she can make out the outline of his body, the narrow chest, the bones of his hips, his taught belly. And below…she tries not to look there but her eyes stray anyway. He’s half hard already and she finds herself drawn to him. She wants to step closer, wants to run her hands along his skin. It’s mottled the same way the skin of his face and neck is and she wonders if the texture is rough or smooth, wonders how it will feel against her own skin.

“Get on with it,” he mutters and she takes a deep breath. He’s been watching too and she can feel the blush that covers her cheeks spread down her body. She feels warm. Warm and strange, like she’s watching the entire proceedings from outside her own body.

“Yes,” she murmurs and wishes she didn’t sound quite so breathless, wishes she weren’t so caught somewhere between excited and scared out of her mind.

It takes her little time to light the remaining seven candles, moving careful in a clockwise direction around them. She sneaks looks at him as she does so, noticing that with each lighting, he attempts to slip into whatever shadows he can find.

The middle of the room is awash with light that is in constant motion as each candle dances in its own flame. She watches for a moment, entranced, until she feels Rumplestiltskin come up beside her. She starts to turn but his hand comes up and brushes her face. Just the lightest touch, but it stops her from moving her head toward him. “Don’t look,” he murmurs.

She nods. “I have to…”

“Eventually, I know.” And there’s a strange tone to his voice. “The less you see…” He lets the words trail off and she knows what he’s getting at.

“I wouldn’t have chosen you if I didn’t want this,” Belle points out. Blunt. Her mother always told her she was far too blunt.

Beside her, she hears Rumplestiltskin take in a strangled breath and then feels his hand come up to touch her shoulder. He brushes it down her arm, light as a feather, and she knows the shivers that trace down her spine are not from the coolness of the room. "Continue," he finally whispers.

She turns to him then, meets his eyes. She wants to look lower, wants to see him. But she doesn't dare. Not at such close quarters. Nodding, she holds out the bag with the dirt in it. "You have to…" she starts to say.

"I know." There's no ire in his voice, no arrogance. He simply knows what he has to do. Together they step forward.

He opens the bag.

She reaches and pulls out a small handful of dirt. There are words she must say over it and for a moment she can't remember them. Her mind goes blank and her eyes leave the dirt for a moment to search out Rumplestiltskin's. He nods. He can't say anything. Uttering the wrong words would cause the entire spell to dissipate and all their work and the awkwardness would go to waste.

So she takes a deep breath, digs deep, and finds them. She murmurs them, his voice coming as an echo to hers, and then she releases the dirt to fall around the candle.

The same thing happens at each candle. Different words, the same ritual. He follows her about the room and at each turn, the candle flares, the flame leaping in time to their incantation. The words rise and fall, a sinuous undulation of voices. Hers followed by his. She's the spell caster here, he the follower. It's a strange swapping of their usual roles. And he slides into his with an ease she doesn't expect.

But then the lighting of candles and scattering of dirt are over. The incantations are over. Silence falls as she watches the flames rise, reaching out from the candles like long fingers, grasping, desperate to reach each other. She’s mesmerized for a moment until she feels Rumplestiltskin shift next to her.

She takes a deep breath.

What comes next is the part she _wants_. More, perhaps, than just the spell. She wants that too. There’s no doubt about it. This is her access to higher magic, to proving to Rumplestiltskin that she is more a sorceress than the simple cantrips he’s been having her cast. This is her _chance_.

In every way.

She turns to him then and reaches out a hand, touching his wrist. His eyes watch her hand for a moment before finally reaching out to grasp it. He doesn’t look up until she stands there for a moment, waiting, her eyes focused on the top of his head.

He takes a deep breath.

Her eyes flit down to his chest and cannot look away as he takes another deep breath. She watches the rise and fall of his chest, fascinated with the way the candlelight reflects off his skin. It almost makes it look like scales, shimmering as the light flickers around him.

After one more deep breath he finally looks up. She meets his eyes as he does so. They’re wide and she’s certain there’s some elusive emotion behind them. Fear. Excitement. He offers her a small crooked grin and she finds herself with the same hesitant smile upon her face.

Then he nods and she lets go of the hand she still holds to step forward and run her hand down his chest. She’s wanted to touch him, feel the skin that is always revealed by the cut of his shirts, since perhaps the first day she came to live with him. His skin is rough, not as rough as she expected, but there’s a texture there that she finds she likes.

Pressing the flat of her hand against his chest, she draws it down, running across his stomach, feeling the softer skin there jump with the small gasp he lets out. He’s still half hard and she finds she wants to kneel before him, touch him, take him into her mouth. She almost does it too. There’s nothing in the spell that says _how_ any of it has to happen. Only that it must. Their orgasms will fuel the fertility spell.

But she refrains, unsure about what he wants, about what they’re doing. And so instead explores the planes of his hips, the skin of his abdomen. She brushes him with her hand, just a light touch and feels his cock jump. When she wraps her hand around him, he lets out a strangled noise and rears back. He’s about to speak, about to ruin everything they’ve started and so she leans forward and presses a finger against his lips.

_Only the incantations_. The spell is specific. No words shall pass their lips after the incantations. His eyes widen and he nods, just once. He knows.

She’s about to pull away when he opens his mouth and draws her finger in, laving it with his tongue. Her eyes widen and she lets out a gasp of her own when she feels it. She’s had _no idea_ that such a thing could be so…so…her mind won’t even let her form the words inside her head. They close of their own volition and she’s only focused on the way he sucks on one finger and then a second, her knees starting to betray her. She uses her other hand to balance herself, fingers digging into his shoulder as she tries to stay on her feet.

But he doesn’t allow her to, suddenly reaching forward and catching her behind the knees. It’s an unexpected move and Belle _almost_ speaks. But instead her teeth clamp down on her lower lip as her body comes into contact with his. She can barely even think, much less utter anything coherent in that moment. The spell flares around her as he kneels and lays her on the ground in the middle of it all.

He’s kneeling above her and she looks up, sees the candlelight reflected in his eyes. He’s watching her, his eyes moving slowly down her body, flitting away every once in awhile as if too embarrassed that he’s been caught looking. She feels the blush creep across her, feels warm all over.

When his eyes come back up to hers, she can see the question in them. _Are you sure?_

She nods to the unspoken question and he leans down, ever so carefully, and presses a kiss to her cheek, to her forehead. She can feel him shake as she reaches up and pulls his mouth toward hers. _She wants this_. She has always wanted this. Maybe even before she knew him, when she imagined shadow lovers and someday wondered what it all might be like. It was him. It was _always_ him.

And so when his mouth meets hers and her hands come up to tangle in the curling hair that frames his face, it’s exactly as it should be. He can’t know this. And maybe someday she’ll explain, tell him her dreams of phantom lovers so very different from the men she knew growing up. She’s not sure he’ll understand.

She can show him though, letting her hands drift lower, running across the rough skin of his shoulders, the smoother skin of his back. He arches into her even as his mouth leaves hers and moves to her earlobe, biting down gently before drawing it into his mouth. And she's never known that her earlobes were so _sensitive._ She lets out a small cry, pulls him toward her.

He resists though, pulling away. She looks up to see him watching her again. His expression is unreadable in the half darkness of the room. A flicker of light illuminates him for a moment and then his eyes move away from her, drift down. His mouth follows. He's true to his promise. She must orgasm and he seems intent on it, gentle and yet insistent. He traces kisses across her breasts, wet and open mouthed and if she thought her earlobe was sensitive that's nothing compared to the feeling of his tongue on the underside of her breast, his teeth grazing lightly across her nipple.

And it's certainly nothing compared to when his hand drifts lower and brushes against her. She separates her legs when he does it. She doesn't even _think_ , just _does._ And then his hand is there, gently touching her, separating the folds that are slick with her own moisture. She hears a small sound come from him when he presses one finger inside her. And it is the most amazing feeling in the world. He crooks his finger and this thumb comes up to press against her.

Her back arches.

Her eyes fly open.

She could not have imagined the beauty of this, the way her body tightens, the way she cannot stop its natural reaction, the gasp, the moan, the near scream. Above her the tendrils of flame reach out for each other. Strands of flame yearning to unite, to finish what was started.

His thumb moves in just the right way, just a tiny motion, and she is lost. Her back arches completely off the ground, her head flies back. She feels tight and hot and she's afraid she cannot stand it for one moment longer when there is a sudden _snap_ and the tension releases, her throat letting out a choked scream, wordless and loud, and the tendrils finally come together. They feed each other, flame meeting flame and dancing about the room.

Rumplestiltskin pulls himself up over her as her back comes back to the ground beneath her. Her eyes meet his, reach down to touch him. All she has to do is line them up, allow him in, allow him to finish his part and the spell will be cast.

She can feel the energy of it, the white hot pulsing of the light, waves that roll through her, trying to wash her away with it. As she touches him, she feels him shudder. _So close_ …

There's a whisper in the spell.

She feels it more than hears it.

_Something isn't right_.

Looking up, she sees the tendrils of flame begin to spin. Slowly at first, then gathering speed. _This isn't supposed to happen_.

Her hand reaches for him blindly, tries to line him up with her, tries to pull him inside her body. But she can't. His arms are stiff, his body frozen. She's losing him, his cock growing soft in her hands. He tries to back away from her, eyes wide, mouth half open in a grimace. She tries to pull him back, even as the flame begins to spin faster and faster, a dizzying display of sound and fury, a terror all its own.

He's kneeling now, pulling away, and her hands reach out uselessly to pull him back, to stop the dance around them. He shakes his head. Once. Twice. And then tendrils of flame rush together. She jumps to her feet, hands out, fingers splayed, as if she can stop what is happening. But it twists around her, coming together into one final blast.

As the flames race toward her, engulf her, she shouts his name.

And then all goes dark.

* * *

She's not sure how long it has been when her eyes finally open. She's laying on her bed, dressed in her nightgown. As if nothing had happened. As if nothing had gone terribly awry.

But the slight pain behind her eyes, the exhaustion…that told a different story entirely. She takes in a breath and then finally looks around the room.

And almost screams.

There's a man there. Not Rumplestiltskin. No. He's nowhere to be seen. But another man. Human. And when he leans forward she realizes he's massive. She'd think him an ogre if it weren't so obvious he could see.

"Miss Belle," he says and his voice is deep, melodious.

"Who are you?" She pulls the covers up tight over her.

"Dove, Miss," he answers. As if she's supposed to know who _Dove_ is, as if it were normal for her to find a strange man in her bedroom.

"Dove?"

"Rumplestiltskin sent me," he says by way of explanation.

"Where is he?"

"Gone," comes the answer.

"Gone?" She knows she shouldn't be surprised and yet she is. They _shared_ something. Even though it all went so very wrong at the end.

"I don't know where." And he sounds sad.

"So he left you here to look after me."

"He saved you," Dove says. No answer to her question. Not that it was exactly a question. She knows. He has disappeared and left this _Dove_ here to make sure she's fine.

"Saved…" She remembers the fire. She remembers screaming his name and trying to scream _Nooooooo_ and then the blackness.

"You've been out for a week."

"A…" She can't even get the word out. "Where is he?" she asks again.

"I don't know.'" He looks honestly confused and she'd feel sorry for him if he weren't the one left in charge by the enigmatic sorcerer.

"Is he coming back?"

"I don't know."

She pushes the covers back and sits up. Too fast. The room spins and Dove is instantly at her side.

"Miss Belle, maybe you should…"

She grips his arm. Hard. "No. I'll be fine." She turns, places her feet on the ground. The cold floor somehow revives her and she breathes a sigh of relief. "I have to find him."

"Miss…"

She stands, holding the bed to keep herself steady. "Mr. Dove…"

"Just Dove."

" _Just_ Dove…I have to find him." He can't hide from her forever, letting her languish alone in _his_ castle. She's positive he's there somewhere.

Dove watches her, an assessing look on his overly large face. "I understand," he says at last. And then he sighs. "I don't know where he is."

She reaches out a hand, touches his great big hand lightly. "I know. I'll find him."

Dove nods and then stands. And she tries not to shudder because he seems nearly as big as the ogres that once invaded her land. She remembers their sightless eyes, their giant hands. They tower above her just as Dove does and so she tries to push the memory out, away from her.

"Good luck, Miss," he says and turns away. She thanks him and after a moment's pause, he ducks his head and walks out the door.

She's alone again, but that's not such a bad thing. It gives her a moment to think, to piece together what exactly happened in that tower room. She's no closer to figuring it out, though. One moment everything was perfect. She had felt the spell warping their reality, creating all the power it needed to work the magic, to take its price from her. And then it had exploded around her.

Rumplestiltskin had…

He hadn't finished.

And she supposes that's where the issue was. But she doesn't know what happened to _him_. He saves her from a fiery inferno of her own making and then he's gone. Does he thinks she'll blame him? Does he think she thinks _less_ of him? One thing she knows about Rumplestiltskin and it's that he has little confidence in himself.

Oh, he is all bluster and parading around and _Dearie_ this and _Much darker_ that. But she's seen him in the quiet moments, in the way he stares off into space at his wheel. _It helps me forget_. He quips about it, but she knows there's much there to forget, much in his mind that tells him he _needs_ to forget.

She doesn’t know what.

He won't tell her.

But she knows this latest has everything to do with her. There's no doubt there. He had been so uncertain, so hesitant. She watches him retreat into himself time after time. Whenever they get a little closer, whenever he does something kind or even chivalrous, he retreats, waves it off with a motion of his hand. And then disappears.

He pulls the disappearing act more and more.

But this time it feels different. This time there's more to it. _He didn't finish_. And she knows there's something mixed up in that. Something with her and him and maybe she just pushed him too far too fast.

With so much on her mind, she sets to looking for him. She can't talk to him if she can't find him. So that will be her first task.

Whether he likes it or not.

* * *

Three days. She spends three full days alone in the castle, trying to search out Rumplestiltskin. He’s nowhere to be found of course. He’s not in his tower, not in her library, which shows signs of the fire that engulfed her. The rug on the floor is charred, the sconces that held the candles strewn about the room. The books are safe, and she does breathe a sigh of relief over that. But the room itself is a disaster. She spends the first two days cleaning it up when she’s not getting frustrated searching the castle for the missing sorcerer.

It’s nearing dinner time on the third day when Rumplestiltskin appears in the library, now set to rights. She’s alone one moment and then the next he’s there. He’s half hidden in the darkness of one corner of the room and he stays there as she stands.

“You may learn the communication spell.” The words are flat and he doesn’t meet her eyes as he speaks.

“Rumplestiltskin,” she says and reaches out a hand. Useless. She lets it drop back to her side.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says and turns.

“Wait,” she starts to say but he’s already gone, disappearing from the room as if he had never been there in the first place.

She sinks back onto the chair she had been occupying when he’d arrived. She should feel giddy. She can try to communicate with her mother, try to find out what happened, if she’s proud of her. It’s all she’s ever wanted.

But she can’t even bring herself to feel excited at the prospect.

Something is very wrong here and she doesn’t know what it is nor how to fix it.

* * *

He’s gone for another day before she finds him seated at his spinning wheel. She breathes a sigh of relief at his reappearance, at his doing something so normal. For him at least. Spinning straw into gold isn’t exactly most people’s pastime. And it’s certainly not something she could have imagined the most powerful sorcerer (and the darkest, some whisper, though she has her doubts about that) doing. But here he is. Watching the wheel’s rhythmic turn, his hands running over straw and gold, deft and sure.

She’s always liked his hands. Long fingers, graceful, a spinner’s hands from years, maybe centuries even, of spinning at his wheel.

She watches him now, for just a moment, before stepping further into the room, closer to him. She speaks his name, but there’s no response. He’s intent upon the wheel, watching the movement. His eyes follow the wheel. Around and around and around. She wonders how it doesn’t hypnotize him, doesn’t make him drift right off to sleep. Even she feels a little lulled watching him watch the motion.

When she gets closer, he finally startles. Just a little. And looks up at her. “Belle.” Her name has never sounded quite so sweet. He clears his throat. “I thought you would be studying your new spell.” He looks back at the wheel.

She says nothing for a moment, wonders if he even expects anything else. “What happened?” she finally asks. She doesn’t intend to. She’s not even sure she _should_. She worries that he’ll throw her out on her ear, disappear in a puff of smoke. But he does neither.

His shoulders stiffen.

The wheel stops, but his hand does not move from it.

"Don't you have a spell you should be studying?" he asks. His voice sounds light, but there's an edge to it. Desperation. _Just make it all go away_. She knows where his mind is, where his hope is.

But she has to know.

"Rumplestiltskin." She speaks his name softly and his eyes finally flit to hers. They're wide, the reptilian pupils large in the dim light.

"I don't know," he finally manages to say and there are lines around his mouth that are not usually there. His face is expressive when he allows it to be. Deep wrinkles in his forehead, a furrow between his brows. There is no manic grin present this evening and his eyes look strangely flat despite the light reflected in them.

"You don't…"

"No. I _don't know_." His mouth tightens back to a thin line as he spins the wheel in front of him aimlessly.

Belle takes a step closer and then kneels at his side. She places one hand on his knee and feels him jerk backward. Though he doesn't move completely away and allows her to keep her hand where she set it. It's progress at least.

And then she realizes the entirety of the problem.

"You think I didn't want it."

"I…" At her words he does scrabble backward slightly. She doesn't move her hand though, leaning forward and following him as he moves.

"You didn't," she insists and he turns his head away. An acknowledgement, she supposes. It's the truth, even if he doesn't want to speak it out loud.

"It was a spell," he murmurs.

"Well, yes," she starts to say.

"A means to an end." He gestures oddly with one hand.

"Is that all you think it was?" She cocks her head to the side and lets her hand drift from his knee up to his thigh. She hears him left out a small, strangled noise. "Truly?"

"That's all…" he starts to say, but her hand drifts higher. She's not even really sure what she's doing. No, she does know. She's not sure what his reaction will be. If he'll accept it, if he'll _let_ her. She's been reading. Of course she's been reading. And not all her reading is of the innocent variety.

She's always been curious.

Rumplestiltskin has made her _more_ curious.

"It's not," she says and reaches up to the laces of his trousers.

"What are you doing?" She's never heard such a tone from his voice before. Whispered, a bit of shock.

"I thought that would be rather obvious." Her hands shake as she undoes the laces, running her hands across him, cupping him, as she does so. She's pleased to feel him grow harder beneath her hand. No problems this time. She will make sure of it, make sure he knows this is wanted, that _he_ is wanted.

When he is finally freed and she wraps her hand around him, she hears him groan. "Belle," he says as she leans forward. "You don't…"

But she does. She's fascinated by him, by the way the skin moves over the head, the way the mottled greenish skin gives way to a bit more pink, more _human_. She finds the softness of the skin and the hardness beneath it intriguing. She's never touched this part of a man before and she _likes_ it.

And her books talk about touching it, using your mouth on it, and she wonders how he tastes. She leans forward and her tongue darts out to touch just the tip.

"Oh Gods Belle you don't have to do this." The words come out in a rush and she looks up at him. His hands are gripping the seat tight, his head is thrown back and she can see the cords in his neck.

"I do," she whispers and finally takes him into her mouth. His hips jerk beneath her and she steadies him with a hand.

She's really not sure what she's doing. This is so new to her, just something she's read about. So she tries to remember what the books said. She swirls her tongue around him and is gratified to hear him let out a groan. His fingers come up to tangle in her hair and she's sure she must be doing _something_ right.

As she continues her ministrations, trying to take him further into her mouth, wrapping her tongue around him, his hands tighten in her hair. Almost painfully as the fingers twist into her locks. He grows even harder beneath her mouth and then suddenly he's pulling her away, her name coming out on a strangled moan.

"No more," he mutters.

"Rumple…"

"No more or I'm done." And she looks at him. _Really_ looks at him. He looks wrecked, cock hanging out of his pants, confusion across his brow, his mouth half open as he meets her eyes. "You truly want this" And there's a note of awe in his voice. Awe and shock and still so much confusion.

"Yes," she whispers.

He nods once. "Come here then." And he reaches beneath her arms and draws her up. He pulls her closer, situates her knees on either side of him on the bench. She doesn't even know how she manages to balance there, except that his hands are sure and firm and holding her in place.

He situates her skirts and she can feel him pressing up against her. As his hand comes up under her skirt, ghosting across the skin of her leg, her inner thigh, and finally finding her wet and slick, she leans forward and kisses him.

She's wanted to for perhaps forever. And his lips are soft and firm beneath hers. His finger presses into her, circles her and she feels that familiar tightness. It comes easier this time, moving through her, making her feel hot and light-headed and grounded all at the same time. It's the only thing she can concentrate on, the feel of his lips at her throat, the sting of his teeth as he bites down lightly secondary to the sensation.

"Are you sure?" he manages to ask and she's never heard his voice so hoarse before.

She can only nod but it's enough. He pulls her undergarment to the side and she's never been so thankful that fashion has forgone those ridiculous long pantaloons. And then he's there. She can feel him hot and hard against her. She spreads her legs further and he reaches up to grasp her, guiding her down onto him while steadying her against him.

And then he's inside her and it might just be the most wonderful and strangest feeling she's ever experienced. There's no pain. She's been told time and time again there would be pain. But there's not and her eyes fly open and meet his.

"Did I…" he starts to ask.

"No," she just barely gets out, the word breathy and almost inaudible. He pulls back then and thrusts back up inside her and it might just be the most glorious thing she's ever experienced. _This_ is what she wanted. And so she moves with him, enjoying every sensation, the feeling of being stretched, the feeling of his moving inside her, so hard and hot inside her.

When he reaches around with one hand and finds her again, rubbing his thumb against her, she's lost. Absolutely lost. She tightens around him and this time it’s just so much _more_ with him inside her, still moving.

He gives a few more thrusts, erratic, and then he holds her to him and she can feel him let go inside her. With one final groan, he leans slightly backward, holding her close. He whispers her name once, twice, and then it's almost like a chant.

She kisses him to stop it. He is so lost in that moment, his face full of raw emotion. She can see the ecstasy and the tender feelings hidden somewhere behind it. When she can breathe, she finally speaks. "It wasn't just for the spell."

He offers up a small laugh. "I don’t know how you could…"

"Want you?" she finishes and watches as he shakes his head. She feels in tune with him like she never has before.

"Well…" She bites her lower lip and grins. "I guess I'll just have to keep showing you then, won't I?"

He wraps his arms around her and takes an unsteady breath. "I guess you'll have to." She laughs as she holds him close. They'll have plenty of time for her to show him. Over and over again, if she has her way.


End file.
